


Return To Sender

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/M, The X-Files Revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he gets home, there's a box on the porch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return To Sender

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: XF Revival  
> A/N: From a prompt on Tumblr.  
> Disclaimer: _The X-Files_ and all related characters are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

When he gets home, there's a box on the porch. Not a particularly big box. It's got the black paper tape Amazon uses now strapping the contents in, and it's got Scully's name on the top. He only sees that when he's bent down, three-quarters of the way to picking it up. His hand hovers over the box, as reluctant to touch down as any of the alien crafts he's chased over the years. 

He nudges it through the door with his foot.

He could call her. He shies away from the thought of her impersonal voice, or worse, her impersonal voicemail. She still answers the phone "Scully", but somehow it isn't the same. Their names always felt like a shibboleth before; nobody else ever said them with the right inflection. Now her defenses are unscaleable. She doesn't speak their language anymore. He could text her, and see that she's received the message, and wait for her to reply. He'd feel phantom buzzes in his pocket all day.

He emails her instead. "Hey, I think a package got sent to this address by mistake. Let me know if you want me to bring it into town." No greeting, no closing, impersonal in its brevity, but acknowledging the tenure of their acquaintance. He cannot pretend they are strangers.

The package sits by the door, implacable. Like any mystery, it drives him quietly mad, taking center stage any time his thoughts wander. Anything might be inside it. A book. A pound of coffee. An item of clothing. A new watch. A personal massager, undisguised by its euphemistic wrappings. When he and Scully started sleeping together, he was startled and impressed by her collection of vibrators. "Sexuality is a perfectly normal component of a healthy adult's life," she told him, her eyes steady but her cheeks slashed with a hot pink blush. "Anyway, a woman can't wait forever for her flirtatious partner to actually make a move on her." He'd remedied that, to the extent that he could, and they'd put her array to good use. 

He eyes the box. He misses the days when Amazon only sold books. Books are less likely to make him feel lonely and inadequate, unless they have titles like _The Great Men You'll Date After Ditching Your Crackpot, Albeit Brilliant, Partner_ or _The Idiot's Guide To Hot, Sweaty Rebound Sex With A Variety Of Very Attractive People_ or _When You Can't Live With The Love Of Your Life_. These days the potential contents are much more diverse. He reflects with longing on simpler days. Once upon a time, he might have been able to narrow down the possibilities, but Amazon, like black oil and rebel aliens and government conspirators, has diversified, spreading into all possible niches.

He goes out to mow and doesn't take his phone. It takes hours to conquer their acreage. The riding mower putts along and he tries not to think about boxes. The farmers on either side of them always tut at him not letting them make hay out of his unruly fields, but he likes cutting the grass. The bales would rot slowly in the fields if he didn't let someone take them away, emerging from the snow in the spring like ruins of an ancient civilization. Cutting the grass makes him feel invested in the place, makes it feel homier. He needs all the help he can get now that she's gone.

Scully hasn't emailed when he gets back, of course, or when he gets out of the shower, or when he goes to bed, or when he gets up the next morning. He drinks coffee and frowns at his email. 

The box sits inside the door for days, inscrutable as a plinth. Maybe she'll put in the wrong address for more packages, and he can build a henge. Finally she emails back. He clicks on the message with sudden apprehension.

"Sorry," it reads. "I ordered another one. You can keep it. Thanks for letting me know." Her signature is attached to the bottom, giving her noncommittal words a gravity. Even a brushoff is serious when offered by Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D., FBI. 

He picks up the box, weighs it thoughtfully in his hands, and then shoves it into the back of the closet. The contents are irrelevant to her. Toothbrush heads, maybe, or a string of Christmas lights, something easily replaced or bought on a whim, something she's decided she can live without. Something like him. He doesn't need to know what else she doesn't need. He will leave one mystery intact in its wrappings.


End file.
